Darkness of Us All
by Eva Galana
Summary: In answer to a Cheeky Monkey Challenge: Crossover. A drow warrior is displaced during a time of great upheaval between Lloth and Eilistraee and finds himself in an unfamiliar world beneath an alien moon...M/Hawke, Drow OC
1. Chapter 1

_Crossover between the DragonAge and Forgotten Realms universes, in answer to the Crossover challenge over at the Cheeky Monkey forum._

_Reyavie, I hope you're happy! I put off writing something else as this one just popped into my head!_

_Darkness of Us All_

_Chapter 1?_

Slowly he clawed his way through the darkness, the hard, cold stone beneath his limp body, the chill creeping along his nerves and flesh. Everything urged him to _rise_. The danger could not have vanished, and he needed to rise and _fight_! Coherent thought escaped him, and he moved, breathed, fought within himself solely upon instinct.

Slowly, cautiously, he pulled his knees beneath him, hands still grasping hold of the sword and dagger he held, unable – unwilling – to relinquish his blades should danger still remain. His head hung limply between his shoulders, long white strands brushing his dark cheeks, and cautiously, so slowly, he pushed himself from his knees to his heels, eyes still closed against the pain and fuzziness in his head. He tilted his white head, pointed ears alert and keen, listening for the approach of any foe. Nothing came to his ears, and he realized, finally, that a faint breeze ruffled through his white hair, danced across his sharp featured, ebony fleshed face. Slowly, crimson eyes opened, only to immediately shut against the dim light cast by the silver moon above.

Curious and concerned, Argen Baenre rose to his feet, forcing his light sensitive eyes opened once more, to stare, dimly, at the stone ground he stood upon, the cliff just before him, the trees that surrounded his back.

The dark elf turned, stepping away from the edge of the cliff, his steps unsteady, hands clammy as they gripped his dimly gleaming blades. Standing now at the edge of the trees, shaded by the cool shadows, away from the glaring light of an unfamiliar moon (where were the Tears?), the dark elf scanned the trees, ears once more alert and seeking out foe or ally.

Only the rustle of leaves greeted him, and the drow only scowled as he pushed his own thoughts outward seeking the guidance of his goddess, Eilistraee.

The goddess did not answer her disciple, but Argen put little stock in such. As a male, the goddess did not always answer the call, even from one as devoted as he.

Perhaps…he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The last he recalled, he and others of the Promenade had battled their way through the Snake Pit. Qilue, his leader, had fallen…he shook his head, his thoughts muddled once more, ending only with the imagery of green, volatile ooze…the knowledge that Qilue was dead…

An anguished scream escaped his throat, reverberating through the trees, as he fell once more to his knees, the stone and dirt scuffing his black leather armor. He remembered, but forced the memory down, at the realization of why his goddess would not answer him.

For many moments he knelt, head bowed, tears threatening at his eyes. With a snarl, he launched himself back to his feet, scolding his weakness. His current need was far more pressing. He was in an unfamiliar forest…he glanced up, blinking…under an alien moon.

Taking a breath, forcing his physical pain and tormented heart quiet, the drow warrior grasped his blades, and penetrated deeper into the forest, seeking the cool shadows in which to gather his rambling thoughts.

0O0

A cry reverberated throughout the forest, and one dark head rose, a scowl upon the bearded face as the human man straightened from his task of starting the camp fire.

Glancing about, he took note that his companions heard the scream as well.

"Not a cry of pain," the dwarven man beside him commented as he continued to wipe a cloth along the gleaming surface of his intricately crafted crossbow.

"But definitely of anguish," the blond man seated behind the bearded dark one said, his honey-gold eyes searching the sky as though he could see the source.

"Whatever it was, bears looking into," came the dry comment from the white hair elf seated directly across the bearded man, who raised dark brown eyes to his of moss green. "Once the sun has risen."

"Hawke…" the blond started, frowning into the surrounding darkness.

The man called Hawke straightened, shifting his seating to take a seat next to the blond. "I don't like traveling in the woods in the dark," he said finally, rubbing a hand thoughtfully through his beard. "Only Varric and Fenris here can see anything in this darkness."

"But what…" the blond started to argue, but Hawke raised a hand, quickly cutting off his objections.

"That was not a cry of pain, Anders," Hawke's voice had softened as he smiled at the blond, patting a slender hand with his own. "Sounds to me like someone who isn't happy."

"Perhaps wanting a bit of alone time," Varric commented as he put his cloth away in one of the many pockets that lined his heavy slicker, giving his crossbow a loving pat before placing it in the holster upon his back. "But, if you do think it's worth investigating…"

"Venhedis!" Fenris swore, glaring at the rogue across from him, his moss-green eyes fairly glowing in the darkness. "We could be walking into a trap, wandering these woods in the dark of night…"

Sputtering out a chuckle, Hawke poked at the tiny fire before him. "You are being paranoid, Fenris…"

"No, _I_ am being sensible," the elf retorted, his face scowling at the man across from him. His attention turned to the red ribbon upon his wrist, giving it a slight tug as he completely ignored the scowl Anders gave him. "With the Templars screaming for your blood…"

Hawke merely shrugged, smirking at his friend. "Think they may find me just as easily sitting before this roaring," he grinned at the pathetically sputtering flames, "fire," he finished lamely before grinning wider, "as they would wandering blind in the woods."

"So we're going to take a look-see?" Varric quipped, his golden brown eyes fixed upon Hawke's face, uncertain whether he really wanted to leave the relative comfort of their small campsite to go looking for some unknown screamer in the middle of a Free Marches forest.

But then, perhaps there was a story there…

Gavin Hawke glanced over to where Anders sat, the mage staring at the man with great anticipation, a pained softness in that gaze. Sighing, Hawke reached over, patting his ex-lover's folded hands, and gave a nod. Anders gave a soft smile, eyes closing briefly as Hawke's hand left his own.

"Wonderful," Fenris muttered darkly under his breath as he rose, grasping his greatsword, holding it easily within one slender hand. "I take it Varric and I should take point?"

"You, Fenris," Hawke smiled over at the elf fondly, " are a genius! Yes! You two do that!"

"Ass," Fenris muttered as Varric chuckled at his friend, moving to take point with Fenris.

"Just avoid any pot holes!" Hawke chirped out, pulling his twin blades free of their sheaths as he glanced over to make certain Anders was following. The weak firelight danced along the mage's red-gold hair, and Hawke felt a tightness grow in his throat, one he forced down as though bitter medicine. He had made his decision, back at the Gallows…he needed to remain strong if they were going to survive escaping the Free Marches.

Once safe and sound, then he could…perhaps, reconsider his decision to end things with the mage.

For now, they had a mystery to solve.


	2. Chapter 2

_Received a recent review – simply stated 'continue'. Well, who am I to not answer such a plea?_

_My thanks to everyone who has read, alerted/favorited and reviewed: Reyavie, Nedy Rahn, EroSlackerMicha_

_The Darkness of Us All_

_Chapter 2_

Finding comfort in the deeper darkness of the surrounding trees, Argen stepped from the cliff side, stepping nimbly over fallen branches and other debris that littered the forest floor. In the near darkness, his eyes gleamed red, white hair catching rays of the weak moonlight that still pierced the canopy overhead. Short sword and dagger held tightly in his hands, the dark elf made his way through the woods, eyes darting, ears alert.

A crackling of leaves, a twig snapped, and the dark elf stilled, head tilted slightly as weapons lowered ever slightly at his sides. Crimson burning eyes narrowed as they flicked over the path before him, taking in the cooling shapes of fallen trees, undergrowth and rock. Voices, speaking in low garbled volumes, reached his ears, and he frowned, glancing upwards to the boughs of the surrounding pines. His sensitive hearing alerted him that the voices were growing closer, and, decision made, he sheathed both blades, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Feet left sodden earth as he rose up into the boughs, hidden within the canopy, as he reached out and pulled himself from the air and into the embrace of the branches above.

From his perch above ground, the dark elf watches the group of four males – two human, one dwarf and one elf – passed beneath, unaware of his presence high above their heads. With a patience born from a life as a predator, the dark-skinned elf watched as the group made their way to the cliff side, a frown forming upon the features of the darker human. Unable to understand their words, Argen continued to watch as the four males continued with their debate, finally giving up and returning the way they had come from.

Relief swept through the elf's body. Despite his trepidation of the group, of being unable to determine what race the elf represented, Argen eased himself from his treetop refuge and lightly drifted to the forest's floor. Taking a deep breath, he turned, walking away from the cliff, and turned toward the direction the four came from.

"I'm telling you, Hawke, I heard something," Varric muttered irritably as the four men made their way back to their small campsite after spending well over an hour combing the area surrounding their haven.

Chuckling, the dark haired human gently patted his shorter friend upon the head, earning a glare. "Of course, those wondrous dwarven ears picked up something our resident elf," he waved a long fingered hand toward Fenris, who slouched by the fire, trying to ignore the pair as he poked at the dying firepit. "didn't hear squat."

Shrugging, Varric stepped away from his friend, regaining the seat he had abandoned earlier. "I can't help it if Broody there couldn't hear anything over your mouth breathing."

Blinking, a slow grin crossing his handsome face, Gavin Hawke snorted. "Mouth breathing?'

Trying to stifle a chuckle of his own, Varric nodded, waving a hand dismissively at the rogue. "You heard me, Hawke. Or are your ears plugged up, too?"

"You two are such asses," Anders muttered with his own chuckle, sauntering over to the fire, glaring down into the pitifully glowing embers.

"Don't even think it, _mage_," Fenris growled at his rival, moss green eyes rising to glare with undisguised hatred at the blond.

"You'd rather freeze then, _elf_?" shot back the mage, suddenly not in the mood for Fenris' aggression.

"Rather that than have every Templar in the Free Marches descend upon us," the elf shot back just as quickly and with far more heat than the mage had.

"Fenris," the elf turned toward Hawke, eyes fixing upon the face of the rogue, "you know damned well that every Templar in the Free Marches can't possibly be anywhere near here." He shrugged, gesturing negligently toward the north, indicating Kirkwall. "Most are still trying to gather what forces they have left and contain the mages."

"Too bad they missed one," the elf snarled, glaring at the mage directly across from him.

"Hey!" Anders shouted, jumping back to his feet. "It was Hawke's decision…"

"You don't think I know that?" Fenris hissed back, rising to glare directly into the mage's honey gold eyes.

"Ah, guys?" they both turned to the irritated, soft voice of the very man they were arguing about. "I'm right here." Gavin turned his dark eyes to the snarling elf. "Fenris," the elf met his gaze steadily. "I know you're not happy about this. But…"

The elf raised a hand. "Don't, Hawke," the elf's gravelly voice was heavier than usual and Hawke frowned at just how tired his friend sounded. "You made the decision, and, as always, I will trust it is the correct one."

A smile crossed the human's face as he regarded his volatile friend. "Thanks," he said after a moment's hesitation. Raising his head to meet the eyes of the mage, the rogue inquired. "Okay, Anders?"

Anders studied the rogue's face for a moment, reading how tired and worn the other man was. The mage was well aware of how much his and Fenris' arguments wore upon the other, and so he nodded, offered a small "Sorry, Gavin," and turned back to the log he had occupied before, completely missing the small smile that crossed Hawke's face at the use of his given name.

"Good," Hawke said after another moment before settling down next to Varric. Tossing a glare at the sputtering fire, he tossed more wood into the pit. "Anders," the mage turned toward him, gold eyes questioning as Hawke gestured toward the dying embers. "would you mind?"

The evening wore on, a chill in the air the dark elf – more used to the warmth of his subterranean culture – shivered as he reached into a pouch, pulling free a softly glowing, flat stone. Sighing, he grasped the stone tightly, feeling the dwindling power seep into his fingers and hands, and spread – far too slowly – throughout his body. He frowned, understanding that the magic that had been placed within the stone was weakening.

Just another indication to the drow that he was nowhere within the Realms.

His own innate abilities seemed to be still working well enough. His levitation into the trees earlier that evening had not proven problematic, and he had cast his faery fire upon an approaching bear, startling the creature and causing it to run off back into the woods rather than engage the strange elf.

Sharp eyes flickered back to where he knew four males sat around a now roaring – and warm – fire. He closed his eyes, wondering if he should approach the four or continue to stalk them. Their speech seemed similar to the common Trade tongue used by the various races of the Realms. Enough so that he felt confident he could communicate with the band.

However, he had not seen anything to indicate he could trust them. From what little he managed to gather from their talk about the fire, they were being hunted, fugitives from those who held the power in these lands. Argen had been unable to garner any additional, helpful information as the dwarf – one called Varric – had tilted his head slightly to the side, a certain indication the dwarf was aware of his silent presence. Rather than risk detection, the dark elf slipped carefully into the deep shadows, slipping away from the campsite.

So now he sat, beneath the trees, clutching at the cooling heat stone, pondering his choices.

_Choices_.

His head bowed, eyes fixed upon the cool dirt and leaf strewn forest floor, as his mind drifted back to the very event that had led to this point.

_The gods themselves had fallen from the skies, drifted up and through the very stone of the world itself, simply appeared within the depths of their temples and shrines, to enforce their reign upon their mortal servants, to ensure their loyalty and power._

_To bring havoc and chaos to the very land of the mortals._

_The drow reveled in it as their goddess, their Spider Queen, Queen of the Demonweb - Lloth – sat upon her throne of spider legs and webbing, and cast about her own web of deceit and chaos, to fulfill the destiny of the dark elves; to bring down and enslave the foolish Tel-quessir._

_The youngest son of a youngest daughter – long since deceased, Argen Baenre watched as his higher placed cousins worked in concert with the black-hearted deity. His only hope for advancement within the ruling First House was realized when he had been called upon by his elder cousin, the Archwizard, Gromph._

_The youngest of the nobles, having watched as his cousin, Berg'inyon, rose within the ranks of warriors, had displayed a talent with sword and dagger dual wielding as well as minor magics. Considered merely average with melee fighting, his talent with spellcasting – however minor – had caught the attention of his powerful cousin. _

_Pride filled the young drow's heart. Finally his talents were being recognized. And thus, he followed Gromph's apprentice into the dimly lit chamber, blinking slightly as his eyes adjusted to the light._

_He watched as his tall, handsome cousin turned and paused, taking in the figure of the smaller and slighter male dressed in simple black leathers, longsword and dagger hanging from slim hips. A smile crossed the sharp features as he neared, cloudy eyes fixing upon the eyes of his youngest cousin, now showing as blue. As the younger shifted uncomfortably, Gromph's grin widened as deep crimson that flashed within those orbs._

_A sense of ill ease swept over the young elf as he watched his cousin turn away, a malevolent smirk upon his sharp features. He realized then and there that his cousin had no intention of taking the young warrior-mage under his wing, but had a more malevolent purpose for him._

_Told to rest, excused momentarily from Gromph's presence, the warrior-mage swept quickly from the chambers, giving a quick nod to the apprentice who had summoned him in the first place. He quickly made his way toward his chambers, taking care to be seen doing so. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he wrapped his piawfi about his slender form, blending into the surrounding stone, the magical cloak cooling his body temperature, and the young male slipped quickly from the palace._

_Instinct had always been his saving grace. Being a male and so low within the ranks of the family meant that an end to his short life could occur at any given time, anywhere, by anyone. He could call none within his own family friend; he had learned at an early age that he could never trust them._

_That instinct had saved him, he was certain. Whatever fate Gromph had intended for the house's youngest warrior, Argen never learned. He had left the palace, the city and made his way toward a cache of valuables he had hidden away beyond the great drow city of Menzoberranzan. _

_From there, he procured the assistance of Bregan D'aerthe to gain passage to the surface. Jarlaxle, the charismatic leader of the mercenary band, had sought to have the young runaway join his band. But, for Argen, the surface had always been where he had wished to go. _

_Unlike most drow, he had been captivated by the stories of the surface – the burning orb of fire, said to flay the flesh of those who dwelled too long upon the surface, or burn the eyes from any drow that sought the aboveground without the aid of one of Lloth's blessed. _

_The evil of their fair skinned cousins was widely known. But, knowing how his own people were to one another, he found it difficult to accept a race even more malignant than his own._

_And, if the stories were true – well, he had to learn that for himself._

_Weeks of journeying through the passages of the Underdark brought him, finally, to Skullport, the subterranean community just below the districts of the human city of Waterdeep. It was there that he had met Qilue, Chosen of Elistraee._

_It was then that the youngster had finally begun to live._

Argen sighed, rubbing a dark hand across his eyes, banishing the memories. They did him little good now. Lost and alone in a foreign land – a foreign world. Those he had known, cared for and loved, fought and lived beside for decades, were now dead. He had failed to protect his Lady and those he had sworn to protect.

Only by Elistraee's grace did the young drow live, and yet he did not feel blessed in the least.

Argen's white head lifted, his eyes scanning the deep shadows surrounding him, seeking the telltale heat signatures of the four who had earlier sought him out. Frowning, he rose. He could not remain still, or alone. If those who shared the flickering campsite ahead proved to be foe, he would rely upon his skill with blade and spell to see him through any battle. Should they prove friendly…well, that thought sat better with him than the idea of battle. With a frown, he carefully placed his heat stone within its pouch before pulling his blades free of their sheaths.

Fingers lightly touched the holes along the hilt of his blade, the blade being a gift from Qilue herself. Tapping out a song – a prayer – to his goddess, the drow cautiously stepped deeper into the shadows, placing a half mask over his dark features as he pulled his _piawfi_ cloak firmer about his body as he watched the wavering figures seated by their small campfire.

As he neared, Argen was able to make out the forms of those that had pursued him that evening. It was obvious by their size and builds that the two in front were a dwarf and elf. The drow's eyes narrowed as he noticed the relative ease with which the slender elf handled the greatblade laid across his lap as he ran a cloth along its gleaming length.

Twisting his head, he took note of the two humans seated close by the flames, the dwarf tapping a thick finger along the butt of his ornate crossbow. The quartet stopped their discussion, suddenly alert, eyes wide as they turned to scan the surrounding darkness.

Carefully, slowly, the drow moved from his position, slowly circling the men who had by now rose from their seats, hands upon weapons as they continued to scrutinize the shadows. As he moved, he pulled free from beneath his tunic an amulet, crafted from silver and mithril, into the shape of a small sword against a crescent moon. He brought it to his lips, whispering the words of a prayer, before placing a reverent kiss to the warm metal. Stepping around the tiny campsite, watching as the mage rose to his feet, he took the opportunity to step from the shadows, taking note of the surprise upon each face at his appearance.


End file.
